


Attention

by Altariel



Series: The House of Mardil [15]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-27
Updated: 2019-12-27
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:27:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21985162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Altariel/pseuds/Altariel
Summary: "If the years had taught him anything, it was how to love beyond hope." Faramir and Denethor, after Boromir leaves for Rivendell.
Series: The House of Mardil [15]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/10990
Comments: 8
Kudos: 15





	Attention

**Attention**

_Minas Tirith, 4 th July 3019_

Boromir was gone. Early in the morning, with one last rough embrace, and the whispered words, _You had better be here when I get back…_ Then he was up on his horse. He blew on the horn, and cried, _“Let all the foes of Gondor flee!”_ and then, laughing, rode out north across the Pelennor. His brother stood with his hand shielding his eyes against the morning sun, and watched until the horseman was a faint dot moving across the fields. At last, he turned and went back through the gate, and began the long walk home. The day was already getting hot. Faramir did not hurry, and he stopped often, to drink at some small fountain or simply to sit in some quiet spot. He was not eager to reach the Citadel, not with Boromir gone.

Quite how his brother was the one riding out this morning he still could not easily see. The dream – which had come to him first, and often – had not attracted anything other than his father’s censure at first, chiefly for its effect on one of his captains at this dangerous time. For about a week, all through the disaster that had been the battle of the bridge and its aftermath, the dream had assailed him. Faramir had barely slept. The vision was so strong, so urgent, and caught him at such unlikely moments, that he struggled to rest. Father was displeased, to say the least. As if Faramir could stop the cursed thing… But then Boromir too was sent the message. Their father called them both in. Quizzed them intensely over details: _the Sword that was Broken, Isildur’s Bane, the Halfling…_ Withdrew to his chambers.

“He knows something,” muttered Boromir, watching the doors close after him. “He knows more than he is telling us.” Where was the surprise in that? Father often knew more than he revealed. When he called them back, it was to agree, with obvious reluctance, that someone should follow this unlikely summons.

 _Send me_ , Faramir wanted to say. _You can spare me_.

But Boromir, quicker as ever, had already said, “I’ll leave within the week.”

“Wait—” began Faramir.

“Enough,” said Father, who then sat and studied them both for a while, as if considering his options. Which son to trust with this? Which one to keep where he could see him? Which piece to play? Which to hold in reserve? Both of them shifted uneasily under his eye, like the boys they had once been, caught at some misdemeanour; a fight, perhaps, or the brandy bottle.

“Boromir,” Denethor said. “You shall go.”

Faramir opened his mouth to protest, saw his father’s expression, and shut his mouth again. And that was that. Denethor dismissed them. Outside, Boromir looked at him anxiously. “Brother,” he started.

“Oh, do…” _Fuck off_. “Leave me alone.”

He sulked for the best part of a day. But puzzles remained, not least as to what Isildur’s Bane might be, or the Halfling, or indeed the broken sword… Faramir was in no doubt that his father knew more, which meant there would be answers somewhere in the archive. There he retreated, to read and study, and also to be quiet, to have the time to hide his disappointment, and make sure there was no sign of it on show. They must, the three of them, at all costs appear united. Any fracture might send the whole edifice tumbling down. At dinner that night, conscious of the eyes of both father and brother upon him, he was perfectly calm, like a swan gliding across the water, all the furious activity hidden below the surface.

The dream stopped, as if its purpose had been achieved, and Faramir had no sense of foreboding that the wrong decision had been made. Perhaps the summons, however strong, had not been meant for him after all? Perhaps he had only been one conduit? Why indeed should he imagine himself singular in some way? Still, there was one night when he nearly went to his father to beg to be sent: _Please let me be the one to go. Please let me see something beyond Gondor before the end…_ But what would that achieve? Nothing but his own humiliation. The decision had been made. Boromir was to go; Faramir was to remain. Denethor had, for reasons he did not care to share, made his decision. Faramir’s desires were irrelevant.

“Are you angry with me?” asked Boromir, finding him one evening sweating in the archive, poring over scrolls in search of Isildur’s name.

“And what would be the use of that?” Faramir replied.

“Oh, you _are_ angry with me.”

“I am in all ways the Steward’s to command.”

Boromir whistled softly. “I’ve not seen you this angry in years.”

“I am quite composed—”

“You go quiet,” Boromir went on. “Still. Very white. You hold books up between us. Oh, and your sentences go clipped. Like you’re shooting arrows.”

Faramir sat back wearily in his chair. Pushed his sleeves up further. _I am tired, brother, and fearful._

“This must be what a target feels like—”

Sharply, Faramir said, “What more exactly do you want from me?”

“I wanted to say that I’m sorry,” Boromir said.

“But you’re not. You’re not sorry.”

“No, I’m not.”

“And here we are.”

They pondered that impasse. At length, Boromir said, quietly, “This is a risky venture. Nobody else should be asked to put themselves into peril in this way. Including you.”

“Yes, indeed, the life I lead is notable for its lack of peril.”

Boromir’s jaw set. “I’m not risking you on this madness.”

They glared at each other. Boromir looked cross. Faramir wondered how he looked. Like Denethor, probably. No wonder Boromir looked cross. Softly, he began to laugh.

Boromir frowned. “What? What is it?”

“The thought of you,” said Faramir, “living in the wild.”

“What? I’m tougher than I look—”

“I give you three months before you’ve drowned yourself.”

“You cheeky little bastard—”

“Yourself and your horse.”

“Fuck _off_!”

They never quarrelled for long. They could not afford to be at odds. Boromir would go, and Faramir would stay, and nobody would know that it might have been any different. Except Father, who knew everything.

Faramir took the steps up into the Court of the Fountain two at a time, coming out to a blue sky and the hot bright sun of summer. The Tower loomed ahead. Father would be within, waiting, and the thought of this made his courage falter. Always there had been the two of them: the two brothers, side-by-side, one to speak and one to keep lookout; one to guard the other’s back, one to move in should Father prove too much. And now… Now that safeguard – that defence – was gone. There was nothing standing between him and his father. He would be the sole focus of attention. A daunting prospect, to say the least.

Turning his back to the tower, Faramir walked slowly down the keel. This delay, he knew, did him no credit. He should go straight inside; present himself to his lord; be available for whatever was required. And yet… _Give yourself a moment or two_. _If you are prepared, you will be more use to him…_ Even as he thought these things, he despised them. It was an excuse to delay, no more. And it proved in vain. When he came to the far end of the keel, he saw his father there, sitting alone on a bench. No turning back now without giving himself away. No escaping this encounter.

Father did not move at his approach, nor did he speak or otherwise acknowledge his son’s presence. Faramir walked slowly past, on to the wall. He stood there for a while, one hand upon the hilt of his sword, the other resting against his back, looking East at the dark mountains that glowered back. Living like this, he often thought, had blighted each one of them in some way. Made his father cold and stony, his brother rash and angry, himself guarded and wary. Killed Mother.

 _Enough of this_ , he thought. Turning away from the Shadow, Faramir looked back West. To the calm order of the Court: the grass, the fountain, the dead tree. His father. With three quick paces, he covered the distance between them, and sat on the bench, at his father’s right hand.

Neither man spoke. As he waited for Father to make his move, Faramir’s mind drifted back thirty years. Mama gone, somewhere he couldn’t quite grasp. The growing realization that she was never coming back – that everyone had known this, even Boromir, but had somehow failed to tell him… or perhaps they had, but he hadn’t understood. Trailing after Boromir, who surely would rather have preferred not, but somehow had never conveyed that fact to his bewildered little brother…

A strange time; a sad time, one of confusions and silences. He had other memories from then too, shared with nobody – not even Boromir. Wandering into Mama’s sitting room, finding… not her, but Papa, sitting in the dark, his hand across his eyes. Watching him, uncertain what to do, wanting to comfort, but guessing Papa did not want to be seen. In the end, he did the only thing he could think of, which was to sit down beside him. He curled up next to him, and leaned his head against him. After a moment or two, Papa’s hand came out to take his. In time, Faramir fell asleep. He woke up in bed. Papa must have carried him there.

Faramir closed his eyes. Always, he thought, these confusions and silences. Sometimes he thought they had found a way through them; sometimes he found himself caught again in ways he still did not quite understand. They could not afford this. He willed himself to breathe, slowly and deeply. Quelled the furious activity of his mind. Reminded himself of his oaths – of obedience and service. Disciplined himself, as he had done many times over the years.

He glanced sideways at his father. He tried, again, to imagine how it must be, to be this man. Tried once more to crack that indecipherable code. What mood was this, today? Anger? Impatience? Calculation? Something hitherto unrevealed? As he watched, his father seemed to age perceptibly. No, this was none of those. This was despair.

 _He has no hope in this quest_ , he realized. _And yet he has risked everything he loves most upon it._

Pity washed over him. He thought of some of the things he might say. _He will be safe_ , or _It will be a hard path, but he is strong and brave,_ or simply even _All will be well_. His father would rightly scorn the lot. In the end, he could think of nothing else to do other than to be here, at his side. As he had been for more than thirty years; as he would, no doubt, continue to be until the end. And where else would he be? What else would he want to do, but serve this man, the last lord of the Númenoreans? What else could he do but stand beside him, fall beside him?

_And he wishes he could have sent me._

It was the middle of the day. The sun was beating down relentlessly upon them, upon all the stones of the city. Faramir ran his fingers quickly between his neck and his collar for a little relief. Alone, he would have loosened the ties on his shirt, stretched out his legs and put back his head… But no. Not in front of Father. Instead, he sat straight, hands flat upon his knees, ready to command. But his mind, he thought; that at least was his to order how he wished.

So, he marshalled his thoughts. He bent them in one direction: to convey, somehow, to this grim man beside him the strength of his love for him, a love so hard it almost cracked his heart. _If there was some way that I could end this winter_ , he thought, as he had often thought across the years; _some act by which I could heal this pain and bring joy to you._ He had abandoned all hope of this many years ago, but if the years had taught Faramir anything, it was that the death of hope did not always mean the end of longing. If the years had taught him anything, it was how to love beyond hope.

Far out across the Pelennor, a horn rang out. Both their heads – raven and silver – turned sharply at the sound. Boromir would be passing through the Rammas Echor about now, he guessed. On to Rohan, and after that, wild country, lost country, and, perhaps, in time, Imladris, and whatever lay hidden there…

Beside him, his father stirred. He rose from his seat, stood for a moment looking out across the fields, then turned to head back to the tower. As he passed, his hand came to rest, very briefly, upon his son’s shoulder. He said, “I shall see you at dinner.”

“Yes,” agreed his son. “I shall be there.”

 _I shall always be there_.

Where else, after all, would he be?

* * *

_Altariel, 26-27 th December 2019_


End file.
